


you, me, and the bourgeoisie

by bbyfruit



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Anyways, Future Fic, M/M, hoodlum activities, so am I, theres no way to tag this its just..... here, they're both messy as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 14:51:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12435096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbyfruit/pseuds/bbyfruit
Summary: in which jonas punches a police officer, mikael makes a movie, and nobody breaks anything, ever, in any store. ever.





	you, me, and the bourgeoisie

**Author's Note:**

> title from you, me, and the bourgeoisie by the submarines

Objectively speaking, Jonas is good at his job. He’s a pretty big name in the industry, almost unheard of for photographers in their twenties, and on top of that, he fucking loves his job. He loves the protests, the energy, the fists and screaming and posters and bodies pushing together in one mass. The only problem is that he might love his job a little  _ too  _ much sometimes.

He might have gotten a little  _ too  _ wrapped up in the energy this time.

He might have punched a cop.

And now he’s fucking hauling his ass across this city that he doesn’t even know, left hand cradling his camera and right hand holding his snapback on his head as he spins around, hears someone yelling behind him, and then puts on a burst of speed he didn’t even know he had.

“Fuck,” he says, making a split second decision. Jonas throws his shoulder into the door of the store, tucked beside an alleyway, and the bell over the door rings gently as he stumbles in, breathing heavily and narrowly avoiding knocking over a stack of records. 

“Jesus  _ Christ _ .” Jonas sinks down to the floor and focuses on calming his heartbeat. Tilting his head back against the wall, he closes his eyes, letting images of the protest flash in his mind. He can only hope that he caught them on camera, because fuck if that wasn’t a good one. His breathing slows.

And then someone else bursts into the store.

The boy yelps, tripping over his feet and falling, slow motion, twisting and holding up his arm to save the camera that’s hooked around his neck. He lands awkwardly on the floor and lays there for a second, clutching his camera to his chest like a baby.

Jonas knows him.

He freezes, still sitting on the floor, because what the  _ fuck _ are the chances that this happens? What the fuck are the chances that he runs into his high school crush in some half-abandoned record store in a small Spanish city in the middle of a protest? Like, seriously, it must be some fucking huge number. He’ll ask Isak. 

Mikael laughs with his eyes still closed. “Oh, sweet soul of Karl Marx. Jesus. God, what a rush.”

Mouth dry, Jonas says, “Hey.”

Turning his head just enough to see Jonas sitting behind him, Mikael seems entirely unfazed, casually saying, “Jonas. Why’re you on the floor?”

Jonas blinks at him. “That’s… your only question?”

“I mean, yeah,” Mikael answers, pulling himself up and spinning to face Jonas, cross-legged with his camera in his lap. “Like, I know why  _ I’m  _ on the floor, but I don’t know why you’re sitting here too.”

Jonas snorts. Mikael’s always been able to make him laugh. He’s not surprised that hasn’t changed. “Cops run faster than I remembered,” he says.

“Oh, shit, you too?” Mikael asks, leaning in. “Jesus, I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest.” He pauses. “And not just because I saw you.”

Jonas shoots him a look to disguise the way his throat is closing up. Fuck Mikael Øverlie Boukhal, honestly. And also fuck Mikael Øverlie Boukhal, because he’s leaning back and laughing and his shirt is riding up over his hipbones and Jonas wants to die right here on the floor of this record store.

“You shot the protest?” Mikael says, interested, tilting his head toward Jonas’s camera, which is sitting beside him. Jonas nods and pushes it in Mikael’s direction.

Mikael flips through the pictures, chewing at his bottom lip. Jonas tries not to look. It’s not like he hasn’t dated boys since high school, but it’s more like Mikael was the first boy he ever looked at like  _ that _ and there was always this back and forth between them, Mikael leaning his head on Even’s shoulder and looking at Jonas across a smoke-filled room, and nothing really happened and Jonas never really got over it, not even when he saw Mikael at Isak and Even’s wedding and pretended like he didn’t see him. And now Mikael’s here. Mikael’s here in a store empty except for them, beside a shelf of alt-rock records and he’s holding Jonas’s heart in his hands, looking at the pictures that Jonas himself hasn’t even seen yet, and he’s a piece of the sun broken off and fallen right in front of him.

“Fuck, this is good,” Mikael whispers. “Jonas, this is, like, front-cover, photo-students-in-fifty-years-are-going-to-study-it good.”

“What is it?”

Mikael flips the camera around so Jonas can see the display. And he’s right -- it needs some editing, but it’s good, all light coming in front the right places and action framed perfectly and it’s the kind of shit he can sell. And, you know, Jonas will rant about the horrors of capitalism until there’s no breath left in his lungs, but a man’s gotta eat. And pay rent. And buy camera equipment and nice clothes for his exhibitions and presents for his niece.

“What about you?” Jonas asks, kicking the toe of his shoe against Mikael’s leg and shrugging towards Mikael’s camera. Mikael hands it over without ceremony, still focused on Jonas’s work, and Jonas suddenly finds himself experiencing the protest through Mikael’s eyes, and then he  _ gets it _ . Mikael’s not a photographer, not a cinematographer. He’s an artist. Everything is in motion, in color, people moving and shouting, hair and streamers and bodies flying past the lens and then --

“Holy fucking shit,” Jonas says, half out of awe and half out of fear. “I can’t believe you got this.”

Mikael finally glances up and breaks into a grin. “You found the clip, then?” he asks.

Jonas watches it on a loop, watches himself land a right hook to the side of an officer’s face amidst a crowd, all the people moving away like a sea and Jonas just about breaking his leg as he realises what he’s done and takes off, where the footage stops and starts again..

“Shit, Mik, you have to delete this,” Jonas says, shaking his head.

“Why?” Mikael exclaims, pouting. He moves over closer to Jonas and Jonas’s skin tingles with the proximity. “It’s so amazing. Like, look at the definition in your biceps. And also the shot as a whole, blah, blah. But  _ biceps _ .”

Jonas rolls his eyes. “You have a literal video of me assaulting a police officer and then running away,” he says.

“So? We’d both get arrested if anyone saw us, regardless of the video. You socked that guy and I body blocked him from going after you, so they definitely know who we are. I might as well enter it into a film festival. Go to jail with some awards under my belt,” he jokes, nudging his shoulder against Jonas. It’s a weak attempt to hide what he said.

“The fuck? You body blocked a cop for me?”

“I mean,” Mikael says slowly, “Not  _ for  _ you exactly. But, yeah. Sure. Is that romantic?”

“God, yes,” Jonas answers, and he’s laughing like he’s kidding but avoiding meeting Mikael’s gaze because he’s not.

“All these years crushing on you and all I had to do was jump in front of an officer for you? Damn,” Mikael says as he winks, sloppy but still enough to make Jonas’s whole body ache with affection. He’s missed Mikael, missed the easy flirting and sharing photos and leaning into each other. 

Jonas raises an eyebrow. “All these years, really?”

“All these years,” Mikael confirms. “Actually, all -- wait, oh,  _ shit _ , Jonas.”

And Jonas is reeling every time that Mikael says his name, so he ends up sitting there for a second while Mikael scrambles up and practically flings himself across the store.

“Look at this shot,” Mikael calls excitedly. Jonas pulls himself up from the floor with his camera still in his hand because he honestly doesn’t remember the last time that he was more than five feet away from it.

Mikael’s standing with his arms out, eyes on a framed poster and an old cash register and he glances to the left, looking past Jonas to something behind him. 

“Help me move this shelf,” he says, shoulder brushing against Jonas as he walks to the shelf he’s talking about, grabbing at both sides of the shelf. Jonas looks at it skeptically and Mikael rolls his eyes. “Biceps, remember?”

Jonas moves to match Mikael’s position, wrapping his hands opposite to Mikael. “Count of three,” Jonas says, nodding.

Mikael moves on two, knocking into Jonas and sending the entire shelf toppling sideways, because  _ fuck  _ Mikael Øverlie Boukhal. 

There’s shattered records on the floor and Mikael looks down at it blankly, slowly raising his eyes to Jonas with an apologetic look on his face.

“Fucking hell, Mikael.”

Someone moves in a room somewhere, behind a curtain or behind a door, and they’re fucked.

Mikael cringes and then his eyes flash, dangerous, and he grabs Jonas’s hand. “We’re running.”

“We’re  _ what _ ?”

Tangling their fingers together, Mikael drags Jonas to the door and tugs him out into the street.

“We can’t  _ run _ ,” Jonas says, trying to hold Mikael back. “That’s probably, like, some old man trying to support his family and now he has to clean up all that mess we made.”

Mikael stops, finally, spinning to face Jonas, keeping a hold of his hand. “You can’t be a rebel,” he says seriously, “if you don’t rebel.”

There’s silence for a second, just the two of them standing there and holding hands in the middle of the street.

“Fuck,” Jonas says eventually.

They take off, Mikael’s hand in Jonas’s left and a camera in his right.

Mikael’s next film is a love story, clips of Jonas stretched out in Isak’s bed at age seventeen and clips of Jonas punching a cop and everything that comes after. Jonas’s next series is a collection of all the objects that remind of Mikael, half-burned joints and the shattered records that they hung on their bedroom wall, skateboard wheels and bricks and lattes with too much foam. 

It’s how Jonas asks Mikael to marry him.

**Author's Note:**

> hey pals welcome to this edition of "edy is human disaster and they need to be stopped" have some good ol fashioned jokael ft. references to dizzee kipling
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](https://lesbovilde.tumblr.com/)


End file.
